


Fallible

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, M/M, Madeleine Era, Masturbation, Ties & Cravats, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No, he corrects himself—he cannot blame the superior for the inferior's faults. Javert knew his game to be uncouth, knew it to be unbecoming of a man in his position, and still he played it. Now he has lost.</i> Javert fixates on M. Madeleine's cravat and, as a result, exposes his own faults.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallible

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme.

M. Madeleine does not have many identifying tics. When under pressure, he operates calmly, almost mechanically; when pleased with himself, he smiles quickly and turns his head. Most of the time, he is neutral in body and mind, and there are no clues to be found in the calm way his hands hang at his side. It is only when he has been forced to stay in one spot for overlong that he shows himself: He fidgets with his cravat. 

The first time Javert was witness to this, he was so shocked that he faltered mid-sentence and had to recollect what he'd been saying. He had been talking with the mayor for perhaps a quarter hour about a tricky domestic dispute when, out of nowhere, M. Madeleine touched the knot of his cravat, then loosened it a touch by slipping his fingers under the fabric—it exposed a pale sliver of skin at his neck. Javert had composed himself and continued his argument, but even so, M. Madeleine fiddled with the cravat until, finally, blessedly, the dispute was settled and he dismissed Javert. 

Since then, Javert has noticed it constantly. There is all manner of ways that he touches the cravat—from a light correction to, once, a complete retying of it as he talked. It is a habit that would be more appropriate from a fidgety schoolboy. To his credit, he does not lose focus as he toys with the cravat—it is evidently an unconscious tic. 

As Javert is often in a position where he must keep M. Madeleine in one spot for some length of time, he is often privy to this habit that is so uncharacteristic of the otherwise serious and conscientious mayor. It does not seem to be a matter of patience, as Javert has seen his patience wear away without his cravat earning a single touch; as far as Javert can discern, it stems merely from restlessness. 

Whatever the cause, Javert is fascinated. He has found himself dragging out his reports in ways that he otherwise would not—and he would have stopped long ago if he were not rewarded each time. M. Madeleine is a strange, private man, but in this he is predictable. 

It is perhaps an uncouth fascination. But Javert cannot begrudge himself this—he and M. Madeleine lose perhaps ten extra minutes of their day, M. Madeleine's attire suffers in a remediable way, and Javert is given a small thrill that makes the stinking drudgery of life more bearable. At any rate, it gives him something to think about. 24601 never fussed about his chains—or at least never in sight of the guards—but Javert does not doubt that a man who had worn chains for a score of years would still have their ghost hanging about his neck and feel their cold claws when faced with a nemesis who had known the sight of them. 

Usually, M. Madeleine sits at his desk as Javert goes through his report. A few times he's come to the station and taken it there, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he listened. Rarely, he stands before Javert, hands loose at his side or warming in his pockets.

Today he stands, and they debate.

Javert is appealing for the arrest of a man who has escalated from disorderly conduct to vandalism. He believes that a stint in prison will solve the problem. 

M. Madeleine, evidently, believes that a public nuisance and drunkard can be saved with charity and pity. 

Perhaps it would be something Javert could let go—the vandalism was petty and in a quarter of Montreuil sur Mer that does not have a reputation to hang onto—but it has been nearly a quarter hour since their discussion started, and Javert finds himself expounding on the same points for the fourth time and tensing whenever M. Madeleine gesticulates. 

Then—there, M. Madeleine reaches for his cravat and tugs the tail-end out of his vest, fixing a fold in the fabric that was not there. Javert watches with great interest as he does this, as his hand slips up to the knot of the cravat and loosens it with hooked fingers. The curve of his Adam's apple and the hollow of his neck are exposed, and the skin is smooth and pale, and he is repeating the same counter-arguments from before. Javert has already prepared his stock reply.

"—find that he can change, and only needs the proper guidance." There is a pause, and then M. Madeleine sighs and tightens his cravat. "Javert, please stop staring." 

Javert locks up, becomes startled prey. Rather than look into M. Madeleine's face, he drops his gaze and grits his teeth. Of course M. Madeleine has eyes of his own—of course he has seen Javert watching. "Pardon me, M. le Maire," he says. 

M. Madeleine does not address this. "You will give him a warning and let him go. In the meantime, I will talk to him. That is my final say on the matter. You are dismissed, Inspector." 

As Javert bows and exits, he suppresses his anger and shame, can feel the hot swath of flush on his face but tamps down on his scowl. It is a hot iron in him, and he holds it in his belly throughout the day—when his thoughts stray too far, he snaps himself back into focus, and refuses to entertain any of his fanciful ideas. They will become a torrent soon, he knows. A weaker man might retire early or find an excuse to hole himself in some place alone, but Javert works late into the night, later than is normal even for him, and takes the long way home. M. Madeleine is a fool, he thinks. A childish, naive fool, who cannot help but taunt his inferiors by showing himself off and then snapping at them for looking. 

No, he corrects himself—he cannot blame the superior for the inferior's faults. Javert knew his game to be uncouth, knew it to be unbecoming of a man in his position, and still he played it. Now he has lost. So it is. The right and just have prevailed, and Javert merely found himself on the sharp end of the sword, this time. Even a man such as he cannot always be right—ninety-nine times out of a hundred is good, but in that one failure lies his humanity, lies the proof that he is reproachable. There is always room for improvement.

Javert will do better, he thinks. He will not impose his failure on M. Madeleine again. 

As he thinks this, he steps into his apartment and locks the door behind him. There is no point to lighting any candles. He divests himself of his greatcoat and hat, and he sits in his hard-backed chair, and he begins to undo the buttons of his trousers. He is half-hard before he has even taken himself in hand. 

His own cravat is a noose. He buries his hand in the soft cloth and tightens, so the pressure is light at his neck, so he is aware of each breath he takes but does not have to strain to take them. He gently thumbs the head of his swelling prick and holds himself, calm, falling into his thoughts.

_Javert, please stop staring,_ he said, and Javert appends this to include: _Or I will do something about it._ M. Madeleine would step away from his desk, and his neutral facade would crack, revealing a calculative one, a cold one, one that appraises his inferior and finds himself wanting a better performance. _If you don't stop staring, I will make you._ But that is not quite right. M. Madeleine is a force to reckon with, but he is not forceful by nature—he is like the stream that erodes away stone. Perhaps, instead, _Would you like to wear it?_ and yes, there, the surge of pleasure crackles up through his abdomen and Javert tightens the cravat once more. Goosebumps rise on his arms and he begins to palm the head of his cock, sucking in measured breaths. His cravat is tight enough to put his nerves on edge, but that is all—his breath comes a touch shorter than before.

_Would you like to wear it?_ M. le Maire would ask, and step forward, and undo the knot of his cravat. Javert, who is a good Inspector, would bow his head and accept anything his mayor asked of him, and so he would accept this. M. Madeleine would wrap the silk—and it would be silk, cool and slippery—around Javert's neck. He would notice Javert's hardness pressing against his trousers, and chide him, and he would tighten the cravat until Javert's back arched and he had to suck in shallow draughts of air. 

As the M. Madeleine in his mind tightens his cravat, Javert tightens his own, viciously, and gasps at the sudden constriction. He is fully erect, his cock standing obscenely against his stomach. He begins to jerk himself off in earnest, quick strokes that will bring him off soon. Blood pounds in his temples; his face is hot. 

_Are you enjoying yourself, Inspector?_ M. Madeleine would ask him, courteous as always, and Javert would scrabble at his arms and gasp and shudder, and M. Madeleine would push him slowly to his knees, force him onto his hands and knees, make him—Javert chokes out a groan. His face is hot, and he has begun to buzz and ache and gasp for air, panting desperately. When he thumbs at the head of his cock, the pad of his thumb comes away wet with precome. He wraps his hand firmly about his cravat one more time, and tightens, and there—he can only suck in the most shallow of breaths, and a buzzing is in his forehead, a ringing in his ears. 

Suddenly, unbidden, comes a new image: One of M. Madeleine on his knees instead, and Javert bending over him, his hand fisted in M. Madeleine's cravat. His face red, gasping for breath, each inhale laced with a desperate little whimper, his eyes wet. _Tell me the truth,_ Javert would say. _Tell me who you are._ And the man on his knees before him—Madeleine, or Valjean, or 24601—would clutch at Javert's thighs and gasp and whine. His cock would be hard and press in an undignified way against his trousers. Javert, for his part, would be in control, superior and relaxed.

As he imagines this, he yanks at his cravat. He can feel the flush in his face, knows that it is deepening, becoming an ugly spotted color as he struggles for breath and arches into his hand. 

_Who are you?_ he would demand as the man came apart underneath him.

_Please,_ he would choke, scrabbling at Javert's coat. Javert's cock twitches, and his balls have begun to tighten; his thighs shake. The chair squeaks as he squirms and pants. _Please—_ and Javert would yank him up by the cravat and throw him against the desk—would bend him forward—would watch him writhe and beg and force him to hump the desk to find relief. Yes, he would make the man whose mere existence has taunted Javert suffer, would rip away his dignity. He could not do it to M. le Maire, no, but to this man, this man who plays at being a mayor, who is at his heart a convict and therefore underneath Javert, yes—Javert cannot breathe; he is so hard he cannot stand it; his hand is not enough. The convict with the mayor's face would beg and pant and then be unable to pant as Javert tightened the cravat with one brutal tug, and he would mouth wordlessly and choke out small whimpers and grind against the desk until he came—and Javert would not, he would be calm—he would be just—he would watch the man tremble—

Javert is dizzy, cannot breathe, and he is on the edge of his orgasm, his hand moving furiously on his cock, the other clamped in the cravat. 

Yes, he would make Madeleine—no, Valjean—oh, God forgive him, he would make M. Madeleine, M. le Maire, come apart, would make him writhe and choke, would make him come over and over again until he couldn't anymore and even then he would—he would—

Javert comes, his body going tense and stiff; his spend splatters on his shirt and hand. For a moment, he knows nothing but a fearful white buzzing and a pleasure so intense that he can only ride it out and hope the cravat suppresses the moans that shudder in his chest. 

When it has crested, he slumps in the chair and loosens the cravat with fingers that shake uncontrollably. He drinks in deep breaths, but the tension in his body does not wane. 

He is depraved. He is fallible. Shaken, Javert yanks off his clothes and staggers to his washbasin—but no matter how viciously he scrubs himself, he does not feel clean.

*

In his following reports, Javert is straight-backed and curt; he either looks into M. Madeleine's face or at the wall behind him, and never any lower than his chin. For many months after, he takes off his cravat before his coat or hat when he comes home. On the occasions that he brings himself off, he forces himself to either think only of submitting himself or of nothing at all, and finds himself glad of the shallow pleasure it brings.

Still—when Valjean shows himself, many months later, Javert cannot help but be relieved.


End file.
